I have coins that jingle jangle jingle

I realize now why my dad was so happy.

My uncles, my grandpa, the guys at work.

My husband, and possibly all my Fantasy Boyfriends.

It has to do with change.
And pockets.

Over the last few years, I’ve been trying to ditch the ‘mom-purse’ as much as possible, and shoving All Important Things in my pockets.

I must have pockets.
Deeeeep pockets.
And I don’t mean that in a gold-digger/miser/rich-gal sort of way.

I need space.
I need room for my
Keys, and
Cellphone, and
Drivers license, credit card, insurance card, and
Cold hard cash.
Sometimes I stick a Kleenex in there, or a
Cough drop, or
A tampon, or
Directions and invitations.

It’s only lately that I listened to my pockets.

When I walk.
When there's coins
deep in my pockets.
Walking.

Happily down the hall to fill my water bottle, or
Through Gigantic Grocery Store from one corner to
The
Other corner,
For milk and makeup and more, more panties.
Striding through a shop, or
Up to the front door of the school, or
From the basement to the top floor with a load of laundry.

Change.

I love to hear the sound of change.
Rubbing against each other in pockets.
A bird-song of conversation.
State quarters tinkle against old Canadian pennies,
Dimes find dimes and fit their grooves into each other,
Nickels become chimes. (nickels, nickels, nickels, says Psychiatrist Lucy)

It’s the sound
Of the sound
Of the lives of my dad and his kind,
A few coins to rub together,
A delicious sound,
A sound of prosperity,
The sound of 32 cents.